


like every flower, a little theory

by whatiwouldnotgive



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Explicit Consent, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Quest, like way way too many feelings to rightfully call this a pwp, sam and frodo having a healthy life affirming sex life, the plot was constructed to justify the porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:49:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29523894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatiwouldnotgive/pseuds/whatiwouldnotgive
Summary: The first time it happens is after the first blizzard of the winter, when Sam comes home late and half-frozen from helping dig out neighbours in and around Hobbiton:“You’re positively frozen out, Sam,” Frodo says, gingerly touching Sam’s ears which, he’s certain, went numb ‘round noon.  “You’ve got to be more careful, you’ll catch your death like that.”Sam laughs, takes Frodo’s wrist and squeezes.  “I seem to remember when we were tweens, you’d forget your own head if it weren’t attached to your shoulders.  You and Mister Bilbo both, most forgetful Hobbits I swore I ever met.  I’ll be alright, da’.”  He says it, that little word, in jest.  Something to tease Frodo out of his worries (especially the thought of Sam catching his death), but instead, Frodo freezes, and then something very curious happens.Frodo turns very, very pink.
Relationships: Background Merry/Pippin, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee, Past Frodo/Merry
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	like every flower, a little theory

**Author's Note:**

> regarding "kissing friends" and tween games: i take a lot of inspiration of RubyNye's lotr fics and world building. their work is here on ao3, and if you're interested in further exploring their idea of romantic friendships between hobbits, i highly recommend it! for myself, i remove aspects of heteronormativity and play around with it in this one. 
> 
> also the amount of times i almost made myself cry over these two while writing..,,,, embarrassing truly.
> 
> title from "sunflower" by frank steele 
> 
> disclaimer: i do not own lotr, all rights belong to respective owners

You’re expected to see  
only the top, where sky  
scrambles bloom, and not  
the spindly leg, hairy, fending off  
tall, green darkness beneath.  
Like every flower, she has a little  
theory, and what she thinks  
is up. I imagine the long  
climb out of the dark  
beyond morning glories, day lilies, four o’clocks  
up there to the dream she keeps  
lifting, where it’s noon all day.

—sunflower, frank steele

* * *

The first time it happens is after the first blizzard of the winter, when Sam comes home late and half-frozen from helping dig out neighbours in and around Hobbiton. He shoves Bag End’s door open with his shoulder, given his hands are stiff in their mittens, and shuts it quick to keep the snow from blowing in. As he hangs up his coat and scarf to dry, Frodo wanders over to him, smallest of smiles playing across his lips. Sam’s heart turns over for the sight of it, warmed to the core. In one hand, Frodo holds a steaming mug of what smells like cocoa, dolloped with cream he and Frodo whipped up earlier in the morning. 

Pressing a kiss to Sam’s cheek, Frodo hands it to him. But just as soon, that smile turns to concern, that crease between his brows appearing. Sam wants to put his thumb to it, smooth it away with a kiss.

“You’re positively frozen out, Sam,” Frodo says, gingerly touching Sam’s ears which, he’s certain, went numb ‘round noon. 

“Oh, well, forgot my hat, see, when I went to shovel everyone out. By then, I was down the hill and didn’t see any point in coming back for it,” Sam says with a shrug. Truth be told, it wasn’t windy at all during the day, and his hair’s long enough to cover his ears anyway. 

But that only deepens Frodo’s frown, who clutches the hem of Sam’s jumper. 

“You’ve got to be more careful, you’ll catch your death like that.” Frodo lays a hand on Sam’s forehead as though Sam could’ve gotten a cold in an afternoon. 

Sam laughs, takes Frodo’s wrist and squeezes. “I seem to remember when we were tweens, you’d forget your own head if it weren’t attached to your shoulders. You and Mister Bilbo both, most forgetful Hobbits I swore I ever met. I’ll be alright, _da’_.” He says it, that little word, in jest. Something to tease Frodo out of his worries (especially the thought of Sam catching his death), but instead, Frodo freezes, and then something very curious happens.

Frodo turns very, very pink. Sam watches it happen like time itself slows to a crawl: a blush seeping its way over his high cheekbones, burning him all the way to his eartips. Frodo swallows, the apple of his throat bobbing; his eyes widen before snatching away his wrist as though he’s been scalded. 

“I, uh,” stammers Frodo, “excuse me, dear. I just remembered I have to finish something for the Mayor. I’ll be back in a while.” He turns on his heel and all but flees into his study, leaving Sam stupefied in the doorway still holding the cocoa. 

Sam makes his way to the parlor, sits with his drink and tries to think of anything he might’ve said that made Frodo upset. When they were lads, Frodo always seemed to take after Bilbo’s flightiness, keenness to stop in the middle of a conversation and research whatever had just crossed his mind. But Frodo largely grew out of the habit, especially in the months they’ve settled into Bag-End after their journey. Frodo takes life much slower now—Sam’s seen the care he takes measuring tea into the pot, precision in writing letters, mending clothes by the hearth while counting each stitch. Rather unusual, Sam thinks, for Frodo to forget something for the Mayor. 

The warmth of drink and hearth makes him drowsy. He dozes off, and when he wakes, Frodo’s banging about in the kitchen making dinner. For a moment, Sam watches him from the threshold before depositing the mug in the sink. Then he cups Frodo’s cheek and kisses him slow and soft because he can now. Frodo makes a startled noise, setting the knife he’d been using to chop parsnips down to kiss Sam back. It never fails to set him alight, tingling from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes.

After they part, Frodo says, “I figured I’d make dinner since you worked so hard today.” He chuckles, scooping up the root vegetables and depositing them in a pan Sam inherited from his Gammer to fry. (When he moved into Bag-End, she gave it to him with a wink, saying _every newlywed needs a sturdy cast-iron, Samwise._ ) “All I’ve done is sit around and write letters.”

Sam wraps an arm around his waist, still too thin no matter how much Sam shoves onto his plate. “You’re working for the Mayor. I’d say that’s just as important work, darling.” 

Frodo smiles down at his hands, “Doesn’t feel that way, but thank you, Sam-love.” 

The name still makes his stomach swoop just as it did when Frodo first kissed it tear-fully into his lips when they laid next to each other in that bed in Ithilien, when they realized they both weren’t dead. 

Frodo, brandishing a wooden spoon, points him to the table, “Sit. I won’t have you lifting a finger.” Sam lifts his hands in surrender, and sits after lighting a few more candles. Watching Frodo cook, Sam’s struck by how beautiful he is, how beautiful their life is. If Sam, with his brown skin and sunny hair, is summer, then Frodo is the winter: icy blue eyes, shimmering black curls. When Frodo sets the table, he kisses Sam’s temple. And when Frodo pours Sam a glass of wine, he rubs Sam’s shoulder. And when Frodo scoops dinner onto their plates, he meets Sam’s eyes, shy and lovely. 

They wash the dishes side by side, singing low. In the parlor, they stretch out to read in the dim, warm glow of the hearth, Frodo’s feet cradled in Sam’s lap. Just as when they were lads, Frodo falls asleep with the book on his chest. Gently waking him, they change into their nightshirts and curl up in bed beneath layers of old Baggins and Gamgee family quilts. Sam doesn’t dwell on what happened earlier, chalking the whole matter up to Frodo being absent-minded, and falls asleep.

The next time it happens, they’re at the Green Dragon with Merry and Pippin, and Sam’s all but forgotten the incident. They’re laughing, a little too deep in their cups on a frigid winter night. The hearth roars steadily as frost coats the windows, and between bodies, drink, and the kitchen, the tavern is hot, a little overly so. 

But the ale is good and the food is hearty. Sam enjoys having Merry and Pippin to talk with, to share stories and laughter. Merry and Pippin themselves appear to have settled into life together as well as Sam and Frodo have. Crickhollow, they say, will be getting a fresh coat of paint come springtime, and their hands are laced tight on the tabletop. Sam does the same with Frodo, even though Frodo’s sat on his right, so Sam has to drink with his left hand. 

The night draws ever on, the crescent sliver of moon rising high in the dark sky. They’re finishing up their drinks when Frodo yawns and suggests they get back before the cobbles freeze over, and they have to slide all the way back to Bag End.

Sam, perhaps veering from tipsy into drunk, says teasingly, “Alright, go on and spoil the fun da’.” 

The series of events goes as follows:

Frodo turns very, _exceptionally_ red; Merry bursts into loud guffaws, burying his face in Pippin’s shoulder; and Pippin smirks at Frodo, mischief hanging at the edges of his lips. 

“Meriadoc, shut _up_ ,” Frodo hisses, “you’re drawing too much attention to us.” Sam’s known him far too long to not be able to detect the note of embarrassment lacing Frodo’s voice. Likewise, Sam realizes how embarrassed Frodo truly must be for him to take that tone with his cousin, the only one who Sam’s ever seen be able to rile Frodo so. 

“Oh, Frodo,” Merry says through peals of laughter, “there’s nobody left but us.”  
“Haven’t you told him, Frodo?” Pippin adds, ignoring Frodo’s glare. 

“Tell me what?” Sam says, and thinks he’s perhaps too drunk to have this conversation. Especially when the three of them appear to know something he does not.

“Nothing Sam,” Frodo says, quick. “Let’s get going. You two—” this is declared at his still-mirthful cousins “—come along, or I shall stick you in the back bedroom.”

“Not that drafty one, Frodo, please,” Merry says, pulling on his coat and tugging Pippin up out of his chair.

“Don’t try me, Meriadoc.”

They pile out into the snow and ice, knocking shoulders all the way back to Bag End where coats are shaken off and hung up to dry. Merry and Pippin trundle into their room ( _not_ the drafty, back bedroom, but a rather nice one near the kitchen that has been theirs since they were young and came to visit as children). In their bedroom, Frodo stands before the fire, nervously biting his nails and cuticles ragged, as he always has. Sam always thought Frodo’s hands lovely and fine, as a proper gentlehobbit should have, especially one like Frodo, lost in books and writing. But then at the very ends are bitten off nails in stark contrast to the elegance of the rest of the bones and sinew. Sam comes up to his side, gently takes hold of Frodo’s hands and holds them close to his chest. Frodo turns, burying his face in Sam’s neck. 

“Don’t ask,” Frodo murmurs, “perhaps I’ll tell you when I don’t have to face my terrors of cousins in the morning.” 

Sam nods, “Whatever makes you happy.”

“You’re far too good for me,” Frodo says. Cradled between Sam’s larger, calloused hands, Frodo’s feel impossibly delicate. Even with the missing finger, even after all these hands have seen and done, Sam worries that he might crush them into dust. He kisses Frodo’s knuckles and smiles. 

The next morning, Sam wakes early to cook for everyone. Wraps himself in his dressing gown, knotting the sash, and smoothing curls from Frodo’s face before trundling into the kitchen. Opening the kitchen window shutters, he’s greeted by Bag End’s gardens covered in a fresh layer of ice and snow. In the distance, the evergreens which form natural fencing swoop and flutter beneath their burden, as delicate as powdered sugar from a baker’s dusting. Closer, the other trees, with their bare, spindling branches, remain sturdy sentinels while icicles drip down, frozen mid-air. On the window ledge are the barest tracks of hopping bird feet, and he spies the curious darting tracks of foxes and rabbits. When he was a child, he and his sisters made sport of learning all the different animal tracks to be found in Hobbiton (given there’s very little else to do in winter when you’re 10), and he picked up knowledge here and there from Aragorn. The morning sun crests over the horizon, with long-reaching beams illuminating tree trunks, turning the land a glittering silver.

Tea for a crowd is easiest to brew, so that’s where he starts, followed by slicing bread to toast and bacon to fry. After stashing the unused bacon in the larder, he returns with half a dozen eggs or so. No doubt, his lads will sleep past breakfast, so Sam heads straight into preparing the usual for second breakfast. Scooping a smidgen of bacon grease into his pan and scrambling in the eggs, Sam recalls a word he learned from Lord Elrond the last time they were in Rivendell: meditative. Sam had been cooking with the Elves, lost in the rhythm and movement, forgetting for a spell his aches; Lord Elrond noticed and told him it was meditation, an easing of the mind. Sam likes the way the word rolls rhythmically across his tongue. 

The promise of food draws Pippin out first wrapped in a stolen blanket, leaving only his up-turned nose peeking out. 

“Morning, Sam,” Pippin says, sleep-thick. Groping blindly for a cup, Sam hands him one and fills it with tea. He takes it with a _ta_ and sits at the table. 

“Did you leave Merry all alone and shivering with no blankets in there?” he says, turning the bacon. All of them except Merry prefer it crisp, so Merry gets overruled.

“No,” Pippin replies into his cup, “alone, yes, but with plenty of blankets. He’s awake, just not ready to join the rest of us yet.”

“Rude to speak of me when I’m not in the room,” Merry says, padding in. “Need any help Sam?” 

“No thanks. I’m all but finished here. Here, take the kettle to the table.” 

With quirked smile, Merry does as bid, wrapping it in a tea towel to hold in the heat. He also sets the table before sliding his chair over beside Pippin and snuggling under the blanket with him. 

“How’re your heads?” Sam asks. While waiting for the toast and bacon to finish, he brings over the eggs, bowls of preserved fruit (peaches, from the Brandybuck farm), honey, and butter. 

“Fine enough,” Merry says. Sam spies his hands positively twitching not to dive straight in. 

“Go on, get started,” he says, “I’ll wake Frodo. Keep an eye on the food, will you? Don’t let it burn.” This final instruction is said with a stern Look. 

Back in their room, Frodo’s washing his face by the pitcher and mirror. His dressing gown gapes at the front, revealing a precious sliver of chest before the rest is hidden beneath woolen shift. Coming up behind, Sam wraps an arm around his waist and lays his forehead on the back of Frodo’s neck.

“Was I missed so soon?” Frodo says. 

“Couldn’t start second breakfast without you.”

Frodo laughs, a precious, tinkling sound. “Is that Pippin talking?” 

Sam presses his smile into Frodo’s skin, “All me, I’m afraid.”

Together they return to the kitchen, Merry having saved the rest of their meal from turning to ash. Frodo tangles their feet together beneath the table as he eats and makes eyes at Sam over his cup. Afterwards, Frodo offers that he and Sam wash up, and really, wouldn’t Merry and Pippin like a walk in the forest? See if there’s any elderberries to be picked. 

Pippin waggles his eyebrows but disappears with Merry out the front door, hand in hand after which Frodo presses him against the sink and kisses him senseless.

In the breathless in-betweens where they’re parted, Sam says, “The dishes, Frodo—”

To which Frodo replies, “Damn the dishes,” and tugs Sam’s robe open. 

He shivers, watching Frodo sink to his knees, as he always does. Twining a hand in Frodo’s silken curls while he lifts Sam’s shift up and takes his cock in hand. His head falls back as he gasps. Frodo’s clever mouth smirks then swallows Sam down. He laves around the head, slipping the foreskin back to suckle. Biting his lip, Sam pets his head and tries not to buck forward. Frodo squeezes the base of his cock, works him up to full hardness, and tenderly coaxes out more quivering gasps. Dimly, Sam notes the smidgen of pain from where his back digs into the edge of the counter, but nothing could bring him to stop. Especially not when Frodo’s eyes fall shut in concentration, when they reopen with a flash of lashes, when Frodo gazes up at him and deliberately takes as much of his cock as he can and swallows. Sam’s hips jump at the slickhot sensation of Frodo’s throat fluttering around him. Frodo grabs those very same hips, thumbs digging into the belly fat and muscle, and urges him forward. Urges Sam to fuck his mouth. 

Watching Frodo’s lips turn ruby-red sends Sam over the edge, and he comes, splattering over Frodo’s lips and chin. A bit drips down onto his collarbones. Sam can only watch with a delicious thrill as Frodo swipes it up and sucks his fingers clean. Sam pulls him to his feet, delighted to find Frodo hard already. Pink colours his cheeks and ear tips. Setting his mouth to one of those sensitive ears, Sam strokes Frodo slow and deliberate. 

“That’s it, Sam-love,” breathes Frodo, clutching at Sam’s elbows. Sam’s always quiet when they’re together like this—growing up in a busy household will do that to you—but Frodo gets pleasingly noisy. Every time, Sam gets excited anew about getting to learn all of Frodo’s noises for the rest of their lives.

Frodo comes all too quick, spilling hot over Sam’s fingers with a shudder. He slumps back against the counter, satisfaction playing across his mouth while Sam wipes his hand clean. 

Cupping Frodo’s face, he says, “You’re as bad a distraction as Pippin. We’ll never get nothing clean at this rate,” then kisses him. 

“Mm,” Frodo agrees, boneless, “a moment, my dear. And then I shall wash all the dishes.” 

“Hurry now, before those two get back.” 

“Oh Sam,” Frodo laughs, “they already know.” 

Sam’s cheeks go hot, but he knows that too. Besides, Pippin probably has Merry tucked away in the hayloft of someone’s barn right now. They clean and dress and walk to the main bakery after the washing’s done. Frodo spends an inordinate amount of time perusing the sweets while Sam goodnaturedly haggles with Cora Goldfoot, whose parents have owned the bakery for nearly 40 years. Her locs are piled on her head in an artful bun, and her deceptively sweet voice masks her hard-bargaining abilities when it comes to the sourdoughs and ryes. By the time they return, arms full of bread and tea-cakes, Merry and Pippin are rounding the hill as well, wind-chapped but no worse for wear. Merry’s glasses, however, are dubiously smudged and fog up the instant they step inside. 

That night, they all pile up before the fireplace, elbows and knees akimbo, while Frodo reads. Frodo smiles when Merry and Pippin steal quick kisses when they think no else is looking. Sam rubs Frodo’s feet and ankles. They sip hot cocoa and nibble on the tea cakes until their bellies are overfull, and they totter off to bed. Frodo spoons behind Sam in bed, wrapping his arms around him and tangling their legs together. Everything in this home of theirs slots so neatly together, just like the two of them together in this bed. Like two puzzle pieces or a properly prepared garden with evenly spaced rows. Listening to the rise and fall of Frodo’s chest, Sam counts the lengths he would go to ensure Frodo’s happiness. In this wandering, he forgets all about the Green Dragon and teasing words.

The third time it happens, Sam starts to realize that maybe there’s a pattern to all of this. 

Winter on the cusp of spring, where the snow’s all melted in dregs across muddy fields, trees bud with early flowers not yet bloomed, and Sam starts tilling the garden in preparation for spring crops. Despite the lingering chill, he swipes sweat from his brow, kneeling in front of a raised bed where the strawberries will go. From this vantage point, he spies Merry rounding the bend, a cartful of supplies from Bree trailing behind him. Sam waves, standing and wiping the dirt from his hands as he goes to greet Merry. 

“Pip not make it?” Sam asks, helping Merry cart in flour, preserves, and other necessities not readily available in Hobbiton.

“Crickhollow’s being worked on,” Merry says, “one of us had to stay behind to observe. We had a part of the roof collapse during the last snowstorm.” 

Merry must see the horror on his face, because he laughs and continues, “Don’t worry, it was in the bathroom. Besides some frigid baths, we were alright. Some of our cousins came by just before I left to help repair it.” 

“I always knew those kinds ‘a houses were no good,” Sam mutters, “not a proper smial that won’t cave in on you.”

Merry claps him on the back and says, “Where’s Frodo gone off to?”

“Trouble at the post office. He had to go help them sort it out. Terrible address mixup, and someone ended up with another one’s love letter, see.”

Mirth dances across Merry’s lips, “Always something exciting going out here, isn’t there?” 

The front door opens and shuts. Sounds of Frodo talking under his breath filter to them. Frodo presses kisses to each of their cheeks when he walks over to them. 

“How was it on the way here, Merry?” Frodo asks. 

“The river’s swollen with snowmelt but nothing I haven’t seen before. How was the post office? Sam here said that a love letter’s been misaddressed.”

Frodo groans, “Remind me to never get involved in tween affairs again, both of you. I’m far too old for it.”

“I seem to recall you having your fair share of tweenage mishaps, dear cousin.” 

Frodo colours, brushing past Merry into the kitchen to set the kettle on. 

Merry leans in to whisper to Sam, “He had a crush on Reginard and followed him all over the Great Smiles the entire entire summer we spent there making moony eyes at him.”

“Meriadoc!”

Sam hides a smile, thinking about Frodo traipsing after his cousin and getting them both into trouble because of a crush. Sam leans against the doorway of the kitchen as he watches Frodo and Merry make cups of tea. 

“Was this before or after he stole all them mushrooms from Farmer Maggot?” Sam says, delighted by the way Frodo’s shoulders shoot up around his ears in embarrassment. 

Merry barks out a laugh, handing Sam his cup. With his free hand, he throws it around Sam’s shoulders and holds him close. 

Frodo eyes them trepidatiously, saying, “It’s bad enough when my own cousins team up for my embarrassment. I never expected it of you, Sam.”

“It’s only fair,” Sam says, “you were around when I was growing up. I need all the stories of yours I can get!” 

Merry’s eyes go straight to Frodo, and Sam instantly regrets opening his mouth.

Frodo positively lights up. “What was that time you spilled jam all over the map Bilbo was working on and tried to get it out with vinegar like it was a shirt? Ruined it worse than if you had just wiped it off.”

“Hey!” Sam protests through his own laughter, “it was Mister Bilbo’s fault for leaving it on the kitchen table! And anyway, it made sense at the time. My ma’ had just taught me that trick.”

“But I think we’re both letting ourselves be played, Sam-love,” Frodo says, “why, we both know what those Bradybucks get up to.”

Merry only shakes his head, “Not when Pippin’s not here for us all to make great sport of. Besides, you wouldn’t want me to have to bring up any of our kissing games would you, papa?” 

Frodo just about drops his cup, saved only by Sam rushing forward to steady his hand. Frodo’s flushed clear up to the tips of his ears. Brushing Sam away, he says, “I think that’s enough. If you’ll excuse me, there’s something I need to finish in the study.”

An uncomfortable beat of silence passes between Merry and Sam, Merry looking almost contrite. 

“What did we say?” Sam asks. 

Merry sighs. Asks, “Would you take a walk with me, Sam?” in lieu of a response. After donning coats, Merry takes Sam on the familiar route into the woods skirting the edge of Bag End’s property. The one where the packed earth gives way to a footbridge that once was painted red, but now flakes away in chips straddling a slow moving creek. Sam spares a thankful thought that the bridge managed to survive the Scouring. Merry twines their arms as they walk, ambling and easy. 

“You know that Frodo and I were kissing friends as tweens right?” Merry says after a while.

Sam nods. All of them had their fair share of kissing friends growing up. He remembers Frodo telling him when they were curled in bed a while ago and reminiscing over bygone days. He rubs his thumb absently along the satiny cuff of Merry’s shift.

“Well, when we were together, we figured out there was a game we both liked to play.” He looks a bit bashful around the edges of his face as he speaks, but continues, “Frodo liked being the elder, and I liked it as well. I liked being taken care of in that way, and he liked to take care of me. Do you see?”

Around them, perched on branch and bough, Sam hears the distinct call of the robins and the swallows; the goldfinches and the cardinals. On their long journey, he would keep his mind off his aching feet and grumbling stomach by naming every bird call he could hear. He thinks about Frodo on their journey and the helplessness. Of having to be carried in the end. About Frodo’s reluctance to share any of his burdens with anyone. And bit by bit, the way each ingredient counted precise comes together to form the cake, the past few months neatly align in his mind.

Shaking his head, he says, “I think I do.”

“Calling him papa was only a part of it. And you know, Sam, you do so much for him. You always have. He probably didn’t want to hurt you or thought you wouldn’t be interested in it. He’s respectful like that.” 

“That he is,” Sam agrees. “I wouldn’t want to step in what you and Frodo had, though.”

Merry only smiles, “We’re alright. I have Pip, and Frodo has you. Frodo and I will always love each other, but he doesn’t need me like that anymore. He needs you.”

They’ve looped back around to the back of Bag End, and Merry draws him into a hug. Sam buries his face in Merry’s shoulder, smelling his familiar scent of icy pine and woodsmoke and pipeweed, feeling the velvet of Merry’s weskit beneath his calloused, work-rough hands. 

“How long are you planning on staying?” Sam says, a little watery.

“How long will you two stand me? I’m not ready to go back to face all the relations.”

Pulling apart, they share a secret, tender smile. 

“Are you sure Pippin’ll spare you for that long?” Sam says. “He’s liable to march all the way here and drag you back to Crickhollow if you’re gone too long.”

“Ah, he can manage. Now, come on. Let’s break into that cheddar before Frodo does.”

Merry leaves a week later, with a lighter load but several pounds heavier from Sam’s cooking. That evening he and Frodo watch the sunset on the swing in Bag End’s garden. Built for Bilbo’s parents, it’s creaky and rusty, but no less worse for wear. It’s seen several generations of Bag End residents now, and the wisteria that twines around it will bloom soon. Erupt into violet and cream, drop petals into Frodo’s curls that Sam will brush away before bed. Frodo holds Sam’s hand in his lap, petting the knuckles, tendons as he watches the horizon. Sam watches Frodo before leaning his head onto his shoulder. 

Gently they sway, Frodo’s toes rocking them back and forth in the tender new grass. “The garden will look magnificent this year,” Frodo says. 

“You think?” Sam can picture how the valiant sprouts will look in only a few weeks' time, and his chest warms to think that Frodo too can visualize what they’ve created here together. 

“I know so. With you in full control.” Frodo points to the raised beds and declares, “Those strawberries will be the finest this side of the Shire.” 

It’s such a joyful, exuberant comment, reminiscent of when they were younger with both smaller shoulders and less to carry that tears spring to his eyes. 

Swallowing, Sam says, “And I suppose the asparagus will grow taller than the Old Took. More rhubarb than I could possibly bake into pies!”

Frodo laughs, and it is the clear ringing of a chime, and Sam laughs too. 

Frodo goes quiet then continues, “What did you and Merry talk about when he first got here? I know you went for a walk, and Merry always has something important to say on walks.”

Giving Frodo’s hand a squeeze, he says, “We talked a little about when you two were playing tweens. He got me to thinking, and I’ve been wondering how to bring it up myself the whole week, but.” He takes a breath. “He said you two liked to play a game where he called you papa.”

Frodo’s lower lip trembles, and he won’t meet Sam’s eyes, “You aren’t disgusted, are you?” His voice is tiny. Sam’s heart hurts for the sound of it. 

“No! No, not at all. Just, I had a few questions is all. Would that be something you’d want to try again? For the two of us?”

“You don’t have to do this just because I did it with Merry. I’m perfectly content with how we are now.”

“That’s not why I’m asking,” Sam says, gentle as ever. “Maybe I should’ve started with asking if you’re even still interested in it.”

Frodo gnaws on his lip, then nods.

“I am too. I like you taking care of me, see. When you fix me a cuppa or rub me down after I’ve been working all day. But I’m wondering what you get out of it.”

“I suppose,” Frodo says in fits and starts, “I like it because, well. Oh, because it makes me feel useful. That I’m not weak or a burden. I like taking care of you, and I like knowing that there’s things you have to rely on for me.” 

Sam holds his hand, cups Frodo’s cheek and traces the cheekbone with his thumb, “Thank you for telling me. Maybe we could try it soon?”

Frodo lets out a shuddery breath and nods again.

The evening brings a chill, driving them inside. While Frodo fixes them sweet cider laced with brandy, Sam builds up the fire. Soon enough it’ll be hot to go without, but for now, he adds a log or three, and curls up beside Frodo who spreads out a storybook and begins to read. 

Over the next few weeks, they grow busier with responsibilities, leaving little time for more than sleepy fumbling before bed. But on a cool April Sunday, Sam wakes up to Frodo’s side empty. After fumbling on his dressing gown, he heads to the kitchen where Frodo putters about putting breakfast together. Sam takes his usual place at the table and watches the furrow of concentration in Frodo’s brow. Frodo sets the table, brushes Sam’s hair back, and kisses his forehead. 

“What made you do all this?” Sam asks. In between the bowls of plump apricots and hard boiled eggs, is a stack of golden bread, stuffed with cream and fried crisp around the edges: his favourite breakfast ever since he was a lad. 

Smiling shyly, Frodo says, “I thought maybe today we could try—” he trails off.

“Yes,” Sam rushes in. “I’d like that.”

Neither of them have anything on today. Sam will do the watering, maybe they’ll take a walk or bake bread. Every possibility stretches out ahead of them leading to the inevitable point of experiencing _This_. Uncovering a new facet of the two of Them.

They meander through the day, weaving in and out of their natural routine as it nears to its natural end with Frodo coming up beside him, plucking a cup from his hand, and kissing him sweet and firm. Sam’s glad Frodo put the drink aside because the intensity with which Frodo kisses him has him weak-kneed. When Frodo twines one arm around Sam’s waist, the other around his neck, Sam grasps at Frodo’s elbows.

“Sam,” Frodo says, the air quivering around the word, “dear Sam.” He kisses the hinge of Sam’s jaw, the tender space behind his ear. 

Sam lets out a gasp as he echoes, “Frodo.”

Coy and glinting, Frodo meets his eyes. Blue eyes, elfin and ethereal, glowing and dark. Sam’s stomach twists. “That’s not what you want to call me tonight, is it?” he says, leaning in as though he were going to kiss Sam again but not letting their lips touch. Sam shudders.

“ _Da’,_ ” Sam breathes, face growing hot. 

“Good boy.” Frodo pulls him in closer, so their chests press together and coils a hand in his hair. Frodo kisses the hinge of his jaw, noses down Sam’s neck, and breathes deeply. Sam trembles, clutches Frodo closer. 

“Would you like papa to take care of you?” Frodo whispers into the hollow of Sam’s throat, “Would you like to be my good boy?”

“For you,” Sam says, “anything for you.” All coherent thought seems to melt in his mind, slipping down his spine like molten gold. Watching Frodo gradually step into this long-forgotten aspect of himself is intoxicating; Sam realizes he’s seen glimpses of it now and then throughout their lives—Frodo commanding attention of his younger cousins or not-so-subtly ordering Sam into the house before getting caught in a rainstorm. The full unfurling, however, is another entirely. Rather than feeling wrong-footed, Sam feels at ease: safe in Frodo’s care. 

Frodo leads him to their bedroom and strips both of them of their shifts, weskits, trousers strew across the floor. Nervous, white-hot heat burns low in his belly. Every part of him longs to press against Frodo, memorize the lines of his face, but now it’s _Frodo_ cupping his face and studying him like he does Elvish poetry. Frodo’s pretty cock, slender and curved up, draws his eye, and Frodo of all things _smirks_. Sam feels the phantom push of it in the back of his throat.

“Do you need something, sweet thing?” he asks, fey.

“Let me use my mouth on you,” he says. Then adds, “please, da’.”

Frodo settles back on the bed, looking as though he’s been lit from within in the firelight. Settling between his handsome, scarred legs, Sam clambers on after him. He kisses a burn scar from where a stray ember caught Frodo’s ankle early in the quest, lets his lashes flutter along a mark from one battle or another. When he reaches the apex of Frodo’s legs, Sam laves sucking kisses on his tender inner thighs, watching as they mottle purple-blue in his wake. 

“You want to please me, don’t you?” Frodo says, petting Sam’s curls. Sam nods, taking Frodo in hand. He wraps his mouth around the flushed tip; Frodo’s head falls back, hair cascading out in a dark halo around his head. Squeezing the base, Sam slips down further and swallows, moaning at the heady taste on his tongue, the weight of Frodo in his mouth. Glancing up through his lashes, he meets Frodo’s eyes and swallows thickly again, throat constricting, fluttering. 

Frodo gasps, “That’s it, love.” His back arches, hips rolling in smooth circles. Sam takes it easily, lets Frodo fuck his mouth the way he’s usually too kind and careful to do. He _likes_ letting Frodo use him this way, he realizes. _Likes_ Frodo forgetting things like roles, propriety, expectations. Sam smears a hand up Frodo’s stomach until his thumbs dig into the hollows of his too-thin hips and crawls forward until his nose presses against the curls piled at the base. 

Sliding off, a slip of spit connects Sam’s bruised lips to Frodo’s cock. Frodo looks at him so unfathomably besotted that Sam feels tears sting his eyes. He nuzzles into the space where thigh meets pelvis, trailing down to Frodo’s balls. Dragging his tongue, he lavishes sucking kisses on them until Frodo squirms beneath him, scrabbling at his hair. 

“Yes, yes,” Frodo says, “you’re so good for me. You love it so much.” 

Sam would nod but _can’t_ , hopes Frodo can decipher his whine. Frodo’s prick throbs against his tongue, and Sam knows he’s close. Before he can make Frodo finish though, Frodo pulls him off. Dazed, he blinks with his mouth open and wet. Frodo traces the outline of them, offering his thumb for Sam to suckle on. 

“I want to make you feel good tonight,” Frodo continues, “won’t you lie back and show me how you want to be touched?”

Sam does as bid, fully aware of how hard and dripping he is, leaking wet across his belly. Licking his lips, he gets a hand around himself and strokes slowly. His toes curl in the sheets as he gathers some of his slick and uses it to ease the friction. Frodo rubs his shins, eases his legs further apart until Sam blushes pink at being so on display, which seems absurd after each of them have seen the others’ rawest, bared soul, but the air is charged between them now. Sweat drips down his temples, down his chest, and Frodo leans in to lick the divot of his pectorals. Every time Sam fucks up into his fist, it bumps Frodo’s belly, with the way Frodo’s completely in his space, his presence drowning everything else out. 

“So handsome, so pretty,” Frodo breathes against his temple. He wraps a hand around Sam’s with careful regard to each flicker of wrist or squeeze that Sam uses to bring himself to release. “When we were younger, did you think of me like this?”

The question is a lark—it has to be, Sam thinks frantically. Surely Frodo knows how long Sam’s been gone over him. He hitches a sob, cock pulsing another dribble of pre-come over their knuckles. Reaches for Frodo and kisses him as an answer. Frodo’s far too composed and coherent when they lay like this together, and Sam? Sam’s always been a hobbit of action over words. 

Frodo smiles into the kiss, “Come now, my lad. Tell me, how did you imagine it?”

Sam remembers his tween years as ringed in gold: sunlight, sunflowers, sun tea. Sunlit afternoons from Bag End’s garden at his Gaffer’s side, laughing with Frodo who was pink around the edges. Sunflowers cradled in his arm at the Midsummer festival when Fatty teased him over his inability to give them to Rosie. Sun tea brewing over many hours in his Gammer’s kitchen, laughing with his sisters and brothers while waiting for dinner to be ready.

There’s also the red-faced fantasies of sucking Frodo in the garden between the flowers and grass, of the two of them stumbling into Bag End after a night at the Dragon and rubbing off in Frodo’s bedroom, of being unable to keep their hands off each other and sneaking off into a pantry for quick fumbling. That last one was a favourite, he remembers, for when he was lonely, caught between longing for the courage to kiss Frodo and the flames of near-constant youthful arousal. 

“In the pantry,” he gasps, “nothing much, just our hands. We had to keep quiet, cause Mister Bilbo and the others were in the parlor. But we just couldn’t keep to ourselves no more.”

Worrying a teething kiss into his collar, Frodo hums. Sam shivers.

“Would it please you to know that Merry and I did that once? At Brandy Hall for Yule. He wouldn’t keep his hands to himself, and I made him spill with only my hand. He had to earn it. Would that be something you’d like?”

Sam moans, back arching. What a pretty picture that would’ve been—Merry all flushed and whining as he fucked into Frodo’s hand, Frodo smiling in that knowing way of his. 

“But my sweet Sam, you wouldn’t have to earn it, would you? You’re always so good to me, I’d let you come as a treat. You’d stay quiet for me while I made you spill.” Frodo slides the foreskin back, thumbing at the slips of pre-come pearling up at the tip. He uses it to ease his strokes, twisting his wrist. Sam’s hand falls aside as he sinks into Frodo’s clever touch, hips bucking up. All the while, Frodo swipes his hair back from sweaty forehead, glides over the tip of sensitive ear.

“Would you like to come like this?” he says. He slows his pace enough that Sam is able to blink through the fog of arousal and comprehend the question.

Sam quivers, says, “Will you—? I mean, come inside. Fuck me on your fingers,” all in a rush. Embarrassment flits at the base of his spine, but Frodo merely rubs their noses together and nods. Frodo never lets him feel poorly about anything, but especially when they lay together like this.

There’s a fumble for a moment when Frodo goes for the oil they keep in the bedside table, and Sam rearranges his weak limbs, but they manage. Frodo eases his legs open, insinuates himself right in between. And _oh_ , how pretty does he look there—all his pale skin and dark hair against Sam’s ruddy browns and golds. Not for the first time does Sam think Frodo deserves a crown on his brow, declare him _Frodo Baggins:_ _Prince of the Hobbits_. 

After spilling some oil on his fingers, Frodo eases one inside, wide-eyed and _hungry_. Whining, Sam clutches at the blankets, mouth dropping open in a pleased _oh_. 

“Thank you,” Sam says. “Da’, yes. _Ah—_ ” 

Frodo lets him get used to the stretch, the pressure of fullness. The raw intimacy that overwhelms him whenever they do this: drop every pretense and bare their souls to one another. Only when Sam starts rolling down on to it in circles does Frodo start fucking him, slow, even. He skirts the edge of that spot inside that makes his blood roil in his veins. Makes him swell, like he’s pushing right out of his skin. His cock throbs against his belly, smearing wet slick in shining stripes. 

Frodo’s finger curls, and Sam jumps, body twitching and clenching around it. Doesn’t even notice the cool drizzle of sweet-smelling oil and the addition of another finger until it’s there, parting him wider. Coaxing his body to ease open, looser. Frodo’s nimble fingers reducing him to writhing, whimpers, pleads. He clutches Frodo’s shoulder (the one not marred by the Black Rider) to ground himself because his lower body is set aflame with pulsing, cascading heat. Deep in the cradle of his hips, he throbs, _aches_ , with need.

“That’s it sweetling,” Frodo says, “very good. My good boy.”

“Always yours,” Sam says, choked. 

“Yes, only mine.” There’s a possessive glint in Frodo’s eye, and he drives his fingers into Sam harder, twisting them up and forward. Sam arches, going rigid and feet scrabbling for purchase.

“ _Stars,_ da’, _ah_.” 

“That’s it,” Frodo continues, “you can be as loud as you’d like here. I want you to come, can you do that for me? Come for me sweet boy, come for your papa, yes—” With another forceful push, Frodo fucks his fingers fast and sure and perfect.

Sam comes with a sob lodged deep in his throat, hot and imprecise over Frodo’s hand. Frodo peppers him with kisses all across his face, dotting his nose chin cheeks eyes in a flurry. Falling back, he catches his breath cupped in the cradle of warm bedclothes and soft pillows. Frodo rubs his trembling thighs, watching fondly with a hectic pink flush of his own dusted high along his cheeks. 

“Sam,” Frodo says, “my dear Sam.” 

Surging up, Sam kisses him quiet. He fits his hand around Frodo’s prick, and with a few quick, imprecise strokes, Frodo spills on a high and thready whine. Frodo slots their lips but in a way that’s less kissing and more lax dragging of mouths as they breathe together. Lying side by side, Frodo hitches one of Sam’s legs over his hips, pulling him close 

“I should be the one to thank you,” Frodo says after a while. He gentles over Sam’s back, rubbing soothing circles. “For allowing me this. And for taking care of me. I love you, you know.”

Place a hand over Frodo’s heart, Sam says, “And I love you. Not for nothing, but I wanted this too. Like to learn new parts of you. You’re a story that never ends, Frodo. Always a new chapter to read.”

Frodo’s smiles goes watery. “You are the one who inspires me each day. Why, without you, I wouldn’t have the strength to so much as pick up the quill.” He hugs Sam, tucking his face in the crook of his neck. Then he goes to the pitcher of water on the dresser and rinses his hand, grabs a cloth and wipes both of them clean. Afterwards, Frodo and he slip beneath the covers, facing one another. A perfect set of parentheses bracketing their framed hands, knotted tight. And in this way, they fall asleep as they have many times before and will again for many times after. Because there is more to the Them of Sam and Frodo than an epilogue, a footnote in the tale they will tell about their Age—they deserve the kindest of endings. And together do they write it.


End file.
